


Flying Blind

by youweretheocean



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: (....probably), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Depression, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Mental Illness, Pining, Rating is for later chapters, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, not for lack of trying of course, this is really connor-centric and i'm only a little bit sorry, will add tags as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2018-11-12 07:36:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11157240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youweretheocean/pseuds/youweretheocean
Summary: Literally the only thing he can do right now is stare up at this stuttering mess of a kid, maybe blink once or twice, and say, "What the fuck."--AU in which Connor survives but Evan still finds himself caught in a web of lies and Connor ends up going along for the ride





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends!!
> 
> this is my first deh fic, first m/m fic, first fic in years -- to make it short and sweet, i'm in deep y'all
> 
> i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i've been enjoying writing it

The only thing anyone needs to know about Connor Murphy is that there’s actually nothing they need to know about Connor Murphy.

Of course, that doesn’t stop people from assuming they know everything about him anyway, so whoop-de-fucking-doo.

There’s a set image of him in pretty much everyone’s head -- _psychotic stoner_ ** _freak_** \-- and it’s not like he can really blame them. For Christ's sake, he threw a printer at a Mrs. G. in _second grade_ and it’s kind of hard to bounce back from a reputation you’ve had since you were, what, _seven?_

But during his junior year he typically kept to himself most days, only lashing out in public when provoked and sitting in the far back corner desks of the two or three classes he actually went to -- which didn’t really help his whole _school shooter_ _vibe_ , as Jared fucking Kleinman had been so kind to tell him. It’s not like it mattered very much, considering he’d wanted to blow his goddamn brains out every day since seventh grade and it’s only gotten more and more intense since he started high school and he’d tried at least once a semester to find a way to just fucking end it all -- which had only led to therapist after therapist after _therapist_ even though he’d only _actually_ tried acting on it _twice_ which, like, _isn’t_ a big deal.

This year’s gonna be different though.

After all, Larry has always said that all he needs to do is apply himself, and that’s exactly what Connor intends to do. He doesn’t know when, or how, but that is _exactly_ what he’s going to do.

For now, though, it’s five in the morning and he hasn’t slept at all, so he does what he does best -- get fucked up. The sweet, pungent smoke of his GSC fills his lungs and spreads through the air, masked by the two Bath and Body Works candles he has burning on his nightstand (Eucalyptus Spearmint, does _wonders_ for his stress levels as far as his mom is concerned). He settles into the bed, lying atop his dark blue bedspread and one lanky leg crosses over the other.

He stays that way for a solid hour, until most of the joint he rolled for himself yesterday is gone, and all that remains is the one long hit that’ll send him veering into perfect nothingness. He takes that last drag, closing his eyes once smoke hits his tongue, and inhales deeply, keeps the smoke in for a few seconds, and blows it back out through his nose.

The sun is starting to peek into his room through his open window, some of the early morning light broken up by the maple tree in the front yard, the one that’s been growing outside for as long as Connor can remember.

There’s a bird on one of the branches. He can hear it, and he can see it when he finally opens his eyes again, half-lidded and glazed. What kind of bird it is, he has no clue, but it’s chirping up a storm and it’s piercing his ears every time it opens its mouth -- beak -- _whatever_.

His joint has stopped burning, so he drops it onto one of the dirty dishes on the nightstand (he doesn’t know how many there are; he kind of lost track after ten and that’s not even counting his desk and dresser) and crawls closer to the window, his eyes still trained on the bird as he sits with one leg crossed under him and the other dangling off the edge his bed.

It doesn’t take notice of him, just trills and sort of hops around on the branch, and Connor just watches it because what else is there for him to do at six in the morning on a Tuesday? It’s still summer anyway, it’s not like anyone besides Larry is going to be up soon --

“Connor, get up!” he hears Zoe’s (somehow both apathetic and exasperated at the same time) voice call from outside his room, along with her fist on his door. He ignores it until she knocks louder and raises her voice.

The bird flies away.

“Fuck _off,_ ” he groans, and collapses back into bed, scrubbing his hand against his eyes.

“Fine, but if you’re not ready by seven I’m leaving without you.”

His hand stills and he turns his head toward the door. “Leaving for _where?"_

Zoe scoffs from the other side. “It’s the first day of school, asshole! _Don’t_ tell me you forgot. Mom’s been all over it for the past two weeks.”

He wracks his brain, trying to remember, but just gets lost in the haze until something hits him. He can vaguely make out the fact that he was arguing with his mom last week about whether he would even go back to school or not, and the memory gets clearer once Larry shows up and says that maybe he shouldn’t even bother since he doesn’t even try anymore and --

“Seven o’clock Connor. I’ll leave without you. I mean it.”

He grunts in response and, out of the corner of his eye, stares up at the support beam running across his ceiling.


	2. You Keep Getting Burned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i'm going to post a chapter once a week! it's going to be awesome! i'll just sit down and write a bit every day!  
> life: ding dong u r wrong
> 
> content warning for mentions of self-harm and suicidal thoughts!! i know that it's standard with deh, but please, if you cannot handle these themes, do not read any further. take care of yourselves, my loves.
> 
> also, disclaimer: this doesn't entirely follow the script for the plot's sake -- i hope u all can forgive me for that

Man, _fuck_ the support beam.

He tears his eyes away, and it takes him a second, but he eventually gets out of bed, yesterday’s clothes still hanging off of him, rumpled and a bit rank from the combination of sweat, smoke, and Bath and Body Works products. Christ, when did he get so fucking _gross_?

(Probably somewhere around freshman year, but really, who’s counting.)

There’s nothing Connor wants more right now than to turn tail and go to sleep, but he smells and he’s on edge now and Zoe’s voice is in his head telling him that _you need to get ready you fucking freak_ so a shower will have to do.

He checks the time on his alarm clock—6:03, cool—and plods toward his door, barely lifting his feet from the floor as he swings the door open and steps out into the hallway, checking for any sign of life upstairs.

He can hear the muffled twangs of Zoe tuning her guitar for the day from behind her closed door, but that’s about it. And then he moves on, ducking past her room and moving purposefully through the hallway, toward the linen closet (he grabs a towel, freshly washed and soft, so _soft_ ), and into the bathroom just a few feet over.

The door seems to slam of its own accord behind him, and he takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror— _fuck_ , he’s a mess. It’s kind of obvious that he hasn’t showered in a few days; his hair is unkempt and greasy, his face looks like someone spilled fucking olive oil all over it, and his eyes are more sunken in and bloodshot than ever (though of course that’s not because of not taking a shower, but fuck if it doesn’t add to his whole homeless lunatic aesthetic).

A sigh leaves his lips with a huff as he tears his eyes away from his reflection, and he stares down at the floor as he begins to make quick work of shedding his clothes, refusing to meet his own gaze as he unzips his hoodie and tears it off. He goes to pull his shirt over his head, but he hisses at the realization that his shoulders haven’t quite healed up just yet and the marks on his skin sting as fabric drags over them, pulling broken flesh in a direction it _clearly_ does not want to go.

He sucks it the fuck up though and _tugs_.

The pain is intense, but it’s also fleeting as his shirt falls to the floor and lands without a sound. He spares himself another glance in the mirror, only to immediately wish that he hadn’t; jagged, angry lines mar his chest and biceps—some have gone pale with time, but some are still red and new and it actually pisses him off to have to look at them, to look at himself, to look at the world and say _hey, yeah, I’m fine, I’m not fucking crazy, don’t worry about me_.

It’s not like they do anyway.

If anything, people are more worried about what he’ll _do_ to them rather than _him_ , which is, you know, just fine and dandy.

His eyes burn and he shuts them tight, tight, _tighter_ and he finally sheds the rest of his clothes off before hopping into the shower and turning it on.

The water’s fucking freezing at first, pretty much exploding out of the showerhead in a rush of ice, but soon it’s hot enough to scald Connor’s skin, and he doesn’t care enough to adjust it any more than he already has and he just wants to get clean so, well, _fuck it_.

He grabs a random bottle from one of the shower’s built-in shelves and squeezes the contents into his hands (it smells kind of fruity; _definitely_ Zoe’s) and runs it through his hair as fast as he can, his fingers getting tangled up in it with every pass.

It might not even be shampoo, but he’s getting clean, okay, that’s all that matters right now.

He can’t really bring himself to do a whole lot beyond that, but he tries, and he squeezes some more of the mystery soap into his hands and scrubs at his skin, gingerly passing over his shoulders.

The seconds seem to have stopped and gone by far too quickly all at once and he’s on autopilot by the time he has to start rinsing himself off, looking down at the drain as the water rushes through his hair and sluices down his back—it runs into his eyes and they burn a bit more than they did earlier, but at least he’s feeling something, right?

Right.

He stands under the stream for another minute or so, just letting himself breathe in steam, before pushing the knob that controls the water back against the tile.

And then he still stands there, almost frozen with the realization that he forgot to bring a change of clothes into the bathroom with him—he’s gonna have to sneak through the hallway again, because he absolutely refuses to put his old clothes back on (he literally _just got clean_ , there’s no way he’s putting his sweaty, smelly ass old shirt on again).

There’s a curse on his breath as he pulls the shower curtain open and he reaches blindly for his towel, grasping at air a few times before his hand finally lands on fabric and he tears it off the hook.

Here goes nothing.

* * *

It’s 6:24 exactly when Connor finishes lacing up his boots and his mom calls him downstairs for breakfast.

He pushes his hair out of his eyes and grabs his messenger bag from the back of his desk chair, swinging it over his shoulder as he ambles out of his room and closes the door behind him—there’s plenty of time for it to air out before his mom decides to vacuum or whatever it is she does with her day—he really can’t keep track anymore.

Down the stairs, around the corner, into the kitchen—the whole gang (though maybe that’s the wrong word for a bunch of rich white people, but who gives a fuck) is there at the table—Larry’s on his phone, as per usual; Zoe’s already got a head start on the school year with her nose in a book as she spoons cereal into her mouth; and his mom...well, Mom is Mom and she’s hovering over everyone like a hummingbird. A high-strung, anxiety-ridden hummingbird who starts hovering over _him_ as soon as he sits down and plops his bag onto the ground.

Zoe gives him a look as he pours out his Cheerios and he gives it right back to her, flaring his nostrils and glaring as he reaches across the table for the milk carton and, with the slightest flourish, dumps the rest of it into the bowl.

The victory is hollow considering the fact that Zoe isn’t even looking at him anymore and he has, like, zero intention of actually eating his cereal (and drinking his milk? or does cereal milk count as food? fuck it, who cares) but it’s a victory nonetheless and he’ll take it.

He doesn’t really listen to the chatter from his family and it only barely registers that his mom is talking to him when Larry and Zoe start glowering at him. Connor’s eyes dart between each member of his family, unsure. “ _What?_ ” he finally groans, sinking back into his chair.

“Your mother asked if you were excited for the first day of school,” Larry says coolly before apparently deciding that his work emails are more important, which is—of course—no fucking surprise.

Another grunt, and Connor sinks further into his chair and pulls at the strings of his hoodie until he can’t see anything but blackness.

“Connor, it’s your first day of senior year,” his mom sighs, and he thinks she puts her hand on his shoulder. “You’re not even a little bit excited?”

“Of course I’m excited.”

His mom’s hand grips his shoulder harder.

“I’m excited to not be in school anymore.”

Zoe scoffs and his mom sighs and moves her hand away, and Connor pulls his hood back into its normal shape.

“ _What?_ You asked if I was excited, I said I was excited. I’m trying to find a compromise here.”

Larry finds his voice then. “You can’t get through to him Cynthia, he doesn’t listen. Look at him, he’s probably high.”

“He’s definitely high,” Zoe agrees, and Connor’s just. Inexplicably angry.

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck _you_! I could smell it from my room! Secondhand smoke kills, Connor!”

“Stop picking at your brother, it’s not constructive!”

“You’re _kidding_ , right—?”

“Besides, he’s not high!”

Almost immediately, everyone turns toward him as if they’re expecting him to put on some grand show of either reefer madness or a sermon on the evils of cannabis, but all Connor can do is giggle and try not to slide onto the floor.

“I don’t want you going to school high, Connor!”

He grins. “Perfect, then I won’t go! Thanks Mom!”

He moves to grab his bag from the floor when Larry clears his throat. “You’re going to school, Connor. That’s final. I don’t care if you have to walk or take the bus, but you’re going.”

“And if you’re not ready—”

He can feel his eyes roll into the back of his head as soon as Zoe opens her mouth.

“You’re leaving without me. Got it. It’s not like you said that this morning, or every morning ever since you got your license,” he mocks, getting up and swinging his bag over his shoulders again with a small wince as the strap goes over wrong. He sighs, defeated. “Fine. I’ll be in the living room thinking of ways to get out of P.E.”

There’s a commotion behind him as he walks out of the kitchen—Larry says something about how he wouldn’t have to be taking P.E. in senior year if he’d have just _applied himself back in sophomore year, blah blah **blah**_ ; his mom is telling everyone to just be calm; and Zoe is complaining about him finishing the milk.

He can’t help but smirk at that.

Maybe today won’t be so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kind of slow, longer than the last, but i wanted to illustrate connor and the murphys' home life juuust a bit
> 
> sorry for taking ten months
> 
> feel free to leave kudos and/or comments, and hmu @sexmeupscotty on tumblr!!

**Author's Note:**

> this was short, but it's a prologue and we'll be getting the plot rolling soon (((o(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)o)))
> 
> feel free to leave a comment and/or kudos down below, or even send any questions or feedback my way @sexmeupscotty on tumblr!!
> 
> p̶l̶e̶a̶s̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶f̶r̶i̶e̶n̶d̶


End file.
